Although I had an outstanding editor in ESPN’s Glen Waggoner, there were a couple sections that I hated to see cut. (Yeah, yeah, doesn’t every writer?) This anecdote, about a visit I had with Ty Tryon in 2007, is at the top of the list. I can’t say Tryon was the first Michelle Wie, because that’s not fair to either golfer. But the similarities are there. And Tryon definitely saw some of his own experiences in Wie’s odyssey. Take a look:
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It was so quiet on that first day of August at the PGA South course in Port St. Lucie, Florida. An old man in a yellow shirt and white pants watched the last twosome of the day putt out on the sixth green, with three more holes to play on cut day of a Gateway Tour event. The golfers, in shorts, finished the hole and walked slowly to their carts. Both were young professionals, preparing for Q-School in the fall, hoping to get a crack at the Nationwide Tour and eventually the PGA. One, wearing all black, played on the PGA before, and even made a cut. He was tall and lanky, with brown hair sticking out from under his visor. He had a Callaway bag, sitting in his cart, a relic from the days when he played in front of thousands in person and millions on television. It’s a black bag, with white embroidery. It reads: “Ty Tryon.”
His dad nicknamed him Ty after Ty Webb, the Caddyshack character played by Chevy Chase. Ty first swung a club at age 5. His dad built a bunker and putting green in the backyard of the family home in Raleigh, N.C. But the family moved to Orlando in 1993, when Ty was 9, to work with David Leadbetter.
Tryon became the next Tiger Woods almost before Woods did. He was fearless, and impatient, and ambitious. He hired a personal trainer at age 11. A psychologist and an image consultant and two massage therapists followed. So did a Web site: tytryon.com. The Tryons, flush with hope and money, built Team Ty. He became the youngest player ever to earn a PGA Tour card in 2001, when he was 17. He couldn’t join the Tour until 18, but he made his first cut within four months, becoming the youngest do so since 1957. He had more than $1 million a year in endorsements from Callaway, Target, EA Sports, Oakley, Upper Deck and FootJoy. He had a television ad with Arnold Palmer – old and new – and Leadbetter molded his body to fit his definition of the perfect swing. Tiger himself called him “more consistent than I was at that age.” Tryon drove a Lexus; girls cooed. And when he made his debut at the Phoenix Open, thousands showed up and roared, only to see the boy wonder miss the cut. Five weeks later, he forgot about a practice round with Ernie Els.
And caution was ignored. “I think the kid’s going to be really good,” PGA veteran Scott Hoch told Golf Digest. “I just don’t know what the hurry is.”
Leadbetter defended Tryon over and over again, working tirelessly with the phenom on his swing and promising the media that Ty would be a star.
Then, in 2002, Tryon came down with mononucleosis. It seemed to be a speed bump on the way to certain greatness, but Tryon never got his game back. He bounced from tour to tour, finally winding up on the Asian Tour, stopping at the SK Telecom in Seoul, watching cameras and fans flock to a 16-year-old girl.
By then he was a lanky 21-year-old with facial hair. He stepped to the first tee, cradling a bowl of noodles in one hand and chopsticks in the other. He set the bowl down, walked to the tee, fired his shot, and then returned to his meal. When asked what he was doing, he shrugged and mumbled, “It’s my breakfast.”
Then Ty Tryon walked up the first fairway, bowl in hand.
The same day Michelle Wie made history, Ty Tryon missed the cut by 12 strokes.
A year later, he’s here, on the very bottom rung of the golf ladder, without a caddie or a single fan or even a rules official watching. He pulls and cleans his own clubs, fetches his own drinks, tends pins, and even holds open umbrellas for competitors. On this muggy, overcast day, he tees, swings, drives the cart, gets out, swings, drives, gets out, putts, replaces the flag, and moves on. He doesn’t notice the mushrooms growing along the fringes of the bunkers, and the odd sunbather behind a porch screen doesn’t notice him. Team Ty now includes a 23-year-old golfer, his wife Hanna, and newborn son Tyson. He once earned millions. Now he pays $37,000 a year for the right to play. This year so far, in seven months, he has made three of 21 cuts and earned $3,661.66. He calls his current career “legalized gambling.” He says “it’s tough finishing 18 holes without a meltdown,” and “it’s like there’s a parasite in my head.”
But maybe today is the turning point. Tryon has played well through 33 holes, and he hovers around the cut line. A couple more good holes, and he could make his first cut since February 6 on his way to a 32nd place finish and a $1,211 payout. He birdies the seventh to break par for the day and on the eighth hole, he takes out an iron and rockets his drive perfectly onto the distant fairway. He makes par and walks to the final tee. The last hole is a simple Par 4. Tryon’s got it now – his first paycheck in nearly half a year.
Then he steps onto the last teebox and bugs swarm everywhere. The entire area is covered in fire ants. He stomps everywhere, over and over, until it looks like he’s at a hoedown. Then he steps off the teebox. Then he returns and stomps some more. The clouds pile up, and the sky gets darker. Tryon has left his cart up along the final fairway, and he holds a driver in his hand. He decides to hurry back onto the teebox, address the ball, and swing. He watches his ball and worry creases his face. He walks to his cart and drives after it.
The ball has trickled under an immense bush. Tryon circles the plant, walking all the way around, bending over, leaning in. His partner helps. “He didn’t need this,” he says, “on the last hole.” Tryon gets onto his stomach and crawls into the bush. He disappears underneath. Nothing. He emerges and sighs, then walks back to the tee. The rain begins to fall, harder and harder, until he stands in a downpour, driving another ball into the slashing wet. He finds his way to the green, with 15 feet left for a bogey and an even par round and a certain made cut.
Now he’s drenched, his black Under Armour shirt clinging to his back, his hair dripping. He runs his putt by the hole. Double bogey. He’s got four feet left. The rain pounds. He swings, and the putt lips out. His partner’s shoulders sink. Tryon finishes with a 7 on a Par 4. He slams his club into the Callaway bag and slams the cart cover down, splashing himself with rain in the process. He sits in the cart, rain pelting the roof. He stares straight ahead, his face empty of expression. He drives over to a tent, signs his card, and walks away. He has no idea if he’s playing the next day.
“Twilight zone,” he says. “When you’re in a rut, s—, it’s tough.”
Tryon’s wife sits in a black SUV, idling. But he doesn’t leave yet. He sits down on a wet bench and takes a deep breath. “Last year,” he tells me, “I wouldn’t have talked to you. I wouldn’t have talked to [my wife]. I probably would have put my fist into a wall.”
Now? It’s a bit different now. He’s a dad. He’s a husband. He’s responsible for everything in his life – for the first time. He likes the new Team Ty – a team of one.
“My relationship with golf is really good,” he says. “Better than it’s ever been.”
In a way, Tryon never really had a relationship with the sport before. Back when he earned millions of dollars and fans, he felt “paranoid,” “strange,” “disconnected,” and “numb.” He had so many people around him – from his dad to his agent to his coach — that he simply let everyone else make all the decisions. “I was on autopilot,” he says. Now, he doesn’t even work with a coach. He is trying to play “from the gut” and “learn it myself.” On the last hole, he should have taken an iron instead of the driver. He shouldn’t have put that huge bush into play. But that regret comes now from within — not from without.
“I was so used to people telling me what to do,” he says, “that I neglected the ability to listen to myself.”
Things fell apart almost as soon as Tryon turned pro. All the hopes turned into expectations, and the teenager immediately shut down. “I didn’t know what to expect,” he says, “and I didn’t care that much. Then people start to rely on you, and I became an overemotional person.”
“I didn’t embrace it. I was just sort of doing it. I don’t even know for what reason. Winning was not the most important thing.
“I was just a product – not my own player.”
Tryon watches golf these days, but he spends more time taking care of Tyson and going to the beach and watching the Discovery Channel. He doesn’t follow Michelle Wie’s career, though he says she’s “probably in a similar situation.”
“That’s where being impatient hurts,” he says of Wie. “’I’m out here, so why is this not happening?’”
But now, with no excuses and no one to blame, he has built a real relationship with golf for the first time in his life. It’s his game.
A Gateway Tour organizer walks out and sees Tryon. “9:02 tomorrow, Ty.” He was the last player to make the cut.
